The clock in the church tower of Sairmeuse was just striking eight when
Lacheneur and his little band of followers left La Reche. An hour later,
Blanche de Courtornieu, after dining alone with Aunt Medea at the
chateau, ordered the carriage to take her to Montaignac. Since her
father’s duties had compelled him to reside in the town they only met on
Sundays, when it either happened that Blanche went to Montaignac, or the
marquis paid a visit to his estate.
Now this was Thursday evening, and the servants were consequently
somewhat surprised when they heard that their young mistress was going
to “the town.” Her journey was prompted, however, by somewhat singular
circumstances.
Six days had elapsed since Martial’s last visit to Courtornieu, six days
of suspense and anguish for the jealous Blanche. What Aunt Medea had to
endure during this interval, only poor dependents in rich families can
understand. For the first three days Blanche succeeded in preserving a
semblance of self-control; but on the fourth she could endure the
suspense no longer, and in spite of the breach of etiquette the step
involved, she despatched a messenger to Sairmeuse to inquire if Martial
were ill, or if he had been summoned away?
The messenger learnt that the young marquis was in very good health, and
that he spent the entire day, from early morn to dewy eve, shooting in
the neighbouring preserves; going to bed every evening as soon as dinner
was over.
What a horrible insult this conduct implied for Blanche! However, it did
not so much distress her as she felt certain that directly Martial heard
of her enquiries he would hasten to her with a full apology. Her hope
was vain; he did not come; nor even condescend to give a sign of life.
“Ah! no doubt he is with that wretch,” said Blanche to Aunt Medea. “He
is on his knees before that miserable Marie-Anne--his mistress.” For she
had finished by believing--as is not unfrequently the case--the very
calumnies which she herself had invented.
Scarcely knowing how to act she at last decided to make her father her
confidant; and accordingly wrote him a note to the effect that she was
coming to Montaignac for his advice. In reality, she wished her father
to compel Lacheneur to leave the country. This would be an easy matter
for the marquis, since he was armed with discretionary judicial
authority at an epoch when lukewarm devotion furnished an ample excuse
for sending a man into exile.
Fully decided upon executing this plan, Mademoiselle Courtornieu grew
calmer on leaving the chateau; and her hopes overflowed in incoherent
phrases, which poor Aunt Medea listened to with all her accustomed
resignation. “At last,” exclaimed the revengeful Blanche, “I shall be
rid of this shameless creature. We will see if he has the audacity to
follow her. Ah, no; he cannot dare to do that!”
She was talking in this strain, or reflecting how she should lay the
matter before her father, while the carriage which she and Aunt Medea
occupied rolled over the highway and through the village of Sairmeuse.
There were lights in every house, the wine-shops seemed full of
tipplers, and groups of people could be seen in every direction. All
this animation was no doubt most unusual, but what did it matter to
Mademoiselle de Courtornieu! It was not until they were a mile or so
from Sairmeuse that she was startled from her reverie.
“Listen, Aunt Medea,” she suddenly exclaimed. “What is that noise?”
The poor dependent listened as she was bid, and both occupants of the
carriage could distinguish a confused babel of shouts and singing, which
grew nearer and more distinct as the vehicle rolled onward.
“Let us find out the meaning of all this hubbub,” said Blanche. And
lowering one of the carriage windows, she asked the coachman if he knew
what the disturbance was about.
“I can see a great crowd of peasants on the hill,” he replied; “they
have torches and--”
“Blessed Jesus!” interrupted Aunt Medea in alarm.
“It must be a wedding,” added the coachman, whipping up his horses.
It was not a wedding, however, but Lacheneur’s little band, which had
now swollen to five hundred men.
The Bonapartist ringleader should have been at the Croix d’Arcy two
hours earlier. But he had shared the fate of most popular chieftains. He
had given an impetus to the movement, and now it was beyond his control.
The Baron d’Escorval had made him lose twenty minutes at La Reche, and
he was delayed four times as long in Sairmeuse. When he reached that
village, a little behind time, he found the peasants scattered through
the wine-shops, drinking to the success of the enterprise; and it proved
a long and difficult talk to wrest them from their merry-making. To
crown everything, when the insurgents were finally induced to resume
their line of march, they could not possibly be persuaded to extinguish
the torches they had lighted. Prayers and threats were alike unavailing.
They declared that they wished to see their way, and their leader had to
submit to this foolish fancy. Poor deluded beings! They had not the
slightest conception of the difficulties and the perils of the
enterprise they had undertaken. They had set out to capture a fortified
town, defended by a numerous garrison, just as if they had been bound on
a pleasure-jaunt. Gay, thoughtless, and animated with childlike
confidence, they marched along, arm in arm, singing some patriotic
refrain. Lacheneur, who was on horseback in the center of the band,
suffered the most intolerable anguish. Would not this delay ruin
everything? What would the others, who were waiting at Croix d’Arcy,
think of him! What were they doing at this very moment? Maurice,
Chanlouineau, Jean, Marie-Anne, and some twenty old soldiers of the
Empire who accompanied the party, understood and shared Lacheneur’s
despair. They knew the terrible danger they were incurring, and like
their captain they constantly repeated: “Faster! Let us march faster!”
Vain was the exhortation! The peasantry openly declared that they
preferred walking slowly. Soon, indeed they did not walk at all, but
came to an abrupt halt. Still it was not hesitation that induced them to
pause. The fact was that some of the band, chancing to look back, had
perceived the lamps of Mademoiselle de Courtornieu’s carriage gleaming
in the darkness. The vehicle came rapidly onward, and soon overtook
them. The peasants at once recognized the coachman’s livery, and greeted
the carriage with derisive shouts.
M. de Courtornieu’s avarice had made him even more enemies than the Duke
de Sairmeuse’s pride, and all the peasants who thought they had more or
less to complain of his extortions were delighted at this opportunity to
frighten him; for as this was his carriage, no doubt he was inside.
Hence, their disappointment was great indeed when, on opening the
carriage-door, they perceived that the vehicle only contained Blanche
and her elderly aunt. The latter shrieked with terror, but her niece,
who was certainly a brave girl, haughtily asked: “Who are you? and what
do you want?”
“You shall know to-morrow,” replied Chanlouineau. “Until then, you are
our prisoners.”
“I see that you do not know who I am, boy.”
“Excuse me. I do know who you are, and, for this very reason, I must
request you to alight from your carriage. She must leave the carriage,
must she not, M. d’Escorval?”
“I won’t leave my carriage,” retorted the infuriated heiress. “Tear me
from it if you dare!”
They would certainly have dared to do so had it not been for Marie-Anne,
who checked several peasants as they were springing towards the vehicle.
“Let Mademoiselle de Courtornieu pass without hindrance,” said she.
But this permission might produce such serious consequences that
Chanlouineau found courage to resist. “That cannot be, Marie-Anne,” said
he. “She will warn her father. We must keep her as a hostage; her life
may save the lives of our friends.”
Blanche had not hitherto recognized her former friend, any more than she
had suspected the intentions of the crowd. But Marie-Anne’s name,
coupled with that of D’Escorval enlightened her at once. She understood
everything, and trembled with rage at the thought that she was at her
rival’s mercy. She immediately resolved to place herself under no
obligation to Marie-Anne Lacheneur.
“Very well,” said she, “we will alight.”
But Marie-Anne checked her. “No,” said she, “no! This is not proper
company for a young girl.”
“For an honest young girl, you should say,” replied Blanche, with a
sneer.
Chanlouineau was standing only a few feet off with his gun in his hand.
If a man had spoken in this manner he would certainly have killed him on
the spot.
“Mademoiselle will turn back,” calmly rejoined Marie-Anne, disdaining to
notice the insult which her former friend’s words implied. “As she can
reach Montaignac by the other road, two men will accompany her as far as
Courtornieu.”
The order was obeyed. The carriage turned and rolled away, though not
before Blanche had found time to cry: “Beware, Marie-Anne! I will make
you pay dearly for your insulting patronage!”
The hours were flying by. This incident had occupied ten minutes
more--ten centuries--and the last trace of order had vanished. Lacheneur
could have wept with rage. Suddenly calling Maurice and Chanlouineau to
his side, he said: “I place you in command, do everything you can to
hurry these idiots onward. I will ride as fast as possible to the Croix
d’Arcy.”
He started, but he was only a short distance in advance of his followers
when he perceived two men running towards him at full speed. One was
clad in the attire of the middle classes; the other wore the old uniform
of captain in the emperor’s guard.
“What has happened?” cried Lacheneur in alarm.
“Everything is discovered!”
“Good heavens!”
“Major Carini has been arrested.”
“By whom? How?”
“Ah! there was a fatality about it! Just as we were perfecting our
arrangements to seize the Duke de Sairmeuse, he himself surprised us. We
fled, but the cursed noble pursued us, overtook Carini, caught him by
the collar, and dragged him to the citadel.”
Lacheneur was overwhelmed; the abbe’s gloomy prophecy again resounded in
his ears.
“So I warned my friends, and hastened to warn you,” continued the
officer. “The affair is an utter failure!”
He was only too correct; and Lacheneur knew it even better than he did.
But, blinded by hatred and anger, he would not acknowledge that the
disaster was irreparable. He affected a calmness which he was far from
feeling. “You are easily discouraged, gentlemen,” he said, bitterly.
“There is, at least, one more chance.”
“The deuce! Then you have resources of which we are ignorant?”
“Perhaps--that depends. You have just passed the Croix d’Arcy; did you
tell any of those people what you have just told me?”
“Not a word.”
“How many men are assembled there?”
“At least two thousand.”
“And what is their mood?”
“They are all eagerness to begin the fight. They are cursing your
slowness, and told me to entreat you to make haste.”
“In that case our cause is not lost,” said Lacheneur, with a determined
gesture. “Wait here until the peasants come up, and impress upon them
that you were sent to tell them to make haste. Bring them on as quickly
as possible, and have confidence in me; I will be responsible for the
success of the enterprise.”
So speaking he put spurs to his horse and galloped away. In point of
fact, he had deceived the men he had just spoken with. He had no other
resources, nor even the slightest hope that the enterprise might now
prove successful. He had told an abominable falsehood. But if this
edifice, which he had raised with such infinite care and labour was to
totter and fall, he wished to be buried beneath its ruins. They would be
defeated; he felt sure of it, but what did that matter? In the conflict
he would seek death and find it.
Bitter discontent pervaded the crowd at the Croix d’Arcy, the murmurs of
dissatisfaction having changed to curses after the messengers despatched
to warn Lacheneur of the disaster at Montaignac had passed by. These
peasants, nearly two thousand in number, were indignant not to find
their leader waiting for them at the rendezvous. “Where is he?” they
asked each other. “Who knows, perhaps he has turned tail at the last
moment? Perhaps he is concealing himself while we are here risking our
lives and our children’s bread.”
Soon the epithets of mischief-maker and traitor flew from lip to lip,
increasing the anger that swelled in every heart. Some were of opinion
that it would be best to disperse; while others wished to march against
Montaignac without waiting any longer for Lacheneur. The point was being
deliberated when a vehicle appeared in sight. It was the Baron
d’Escorval’s cabriolet. He and the abbe were in advance of Lacheneur,
and trusted that they had arrived in time to prevent any further
prosecution of the enterprise. But although only a few minutes
previously several of the insurgents had wavered, the peacemakers found
all their entreaties and warnings useless. Instead of arresting the
movement, their intervention only precipitated it.
“We have gone too far to draw back,” exclaimed one of the neighbouring
farmers, who was the recognized leader in Lacheneur’s absence. “If death
is before us, it is also behind us. To attack and conquer--that is our
only hope of salvation. Forward, then, at once. That is the only way of
disconcerting our enemies. He who hesitates is a coward! So forward!”
“Yes, forward!” re-echoed the excited crowd. They unfurled the
tricolour, the banner banished by the Bourbon kings, which reminded them
of so much glory and such great misfortunes; the drums beat, and with
loud shouts of, “Long live Napoleon the Second!” the whole column took
up its line of march.
Pale, in disordered garb, and with voices husky with emotion and
fatigue, M. d’Escorval and the abbe followed in the wake of the rebels,
imploring them to listen to reason. These two alone perceived the
precipice towards which these misguided men were rushing, and they
prayed to providence for an inspiration that might enable them to arrest
this foolish enterprise while there was yet time. In fifty minutes the
distance separating the Croix d’Arcy from Montaignac is covered. Soon
the insurgents perceive the gate of the citadel, which was to have been
opened for them by their friends within the town. It is eleven o’clock,
and this gate is opened. Does not this circumstance prove that their
friends are masters of the town, and that they are awaiting them in
force? Hence, the column boldly advances, so certain of success that
those who carry guns do not even take the trouble to load them.
M. d’Escorval and the abbe alone foresee the catastrophe. They entreat
the leader of the expedition not to neglect the commonest precautions;
they implore him to send some two men on in advance to reconnoitre; they
themselves offer to go, on condition that the peasants will await their
return before proceeding farther.
But their prayers are unheeded. The peasants pass the outer line of
fortification in safety, and the head of the advancing column reaches
the drawbridge. The enthusiasm now amounts to delirium; and who will be
the first to enter is the only thought.
Alas! at that very moment they hear a pistol fired. It is a signal, for
instantly, and on every side, resounds a terrible fusillade. Three or
four peasant fall, mortally wounded. The remainder pause, terror
stricken and thinking only of escape. Still the leader encourages his
men, there are a few of Napoleon’s old soldiers in the ranks; and a
struggle begins, all the more frightful owing to the darkness!
But it is not the cry of “Forward!” that suddenly rends the air. The
voice of a coward raises the cry of panic: “We are betrayed! Let him
save himself who can!”
Then comes the end of all order. A wild fear seizes the throng; and
these men fly madly, despairingly, scattered like withered leaves are
scattered by the force of the tempest.